


Drive

by hungryhippo_11



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Car Sex, F/M, POV Original Female Character, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungryhippo_11/pseuds/hungryhippo_11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fun times while driving in the country. Saying any more would be spoilering ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drive

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. For those not already in the know, it's good to be aware for the purposes of the story that Martin IRL doesn't know how to drive.**  
> **EFA - until quite recently!  
> 2\. The pic I've included is one small part of the Great Ocean Road (which is in Victoria, Australia), just as a visual aid regarding the location.

While here on your home patch, there was no way you’d have him miss this. A chance to go for a scenic drive along the Great Ocean Road. Check out some picturesque countryside and beach. The weather today was perfect.

He’s got his window down, lathering in the crisp sea air, which tousles his hair. Casual, oozing sexiness in a playboy millionaire kind of way, eyes hidden darkly behind Wayfarers. A buttoned down black polo shirt that clings madly to the twist of his middle, stretches, caressing the plane of his chest every time he moves in his seat. You just can’t stop yourself from sneaking a peek. Imagining it’s your hands roving his chest, instead of that fabric.

Thankfully your Aviators are hiding your eyes too.

You focus back on the narrow, winding road ahead. Turn the music up a little louder, concentrate on Stevie Wonder’s sweet, upbeat crooning. Not those jeans of his, fitted perfectly, tight around his thighs. Approaching curves you swerve hard into, left, then right. Generously tempting you with the hefty bulge of his crotch. Right there beside you. You break tight, riding out a hairpin turn, the ocean surrounding you. Close enough to touch. To fuck. You grip the steering wheel hard.

"Would you slow down?"

"I’m not speeding." You blink, ease your foot on the pedal. Maybe you were.

The corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “I’m not saying you are.”

Sometimes you wonder if he’s teasing you like this on purpose. His sun-kissed bicep on show, tendons in his arm flexed, gripping the hand rail above his head. He’d held you down with that arm a few nights ago. Fucked you on hands and knees on the hardwood floor. You’d ride his grunts. Grind your nails into the boards. Boards so shiny you could see his cock slide out, slap into your arse. Watch yourself cum.

Rubber roars on asphalt. Number plates loom close, a four wheel drive. Yosemite Sam on the spare wheel demanding you “Back Off!” You hit the brakes with a squeal.

"Shit!" you mutter. That was way too close for comfort. You’re more concerned for him though. The harsh square of his shoulders. Spine rigid, upright against the backrest. He’s gripped the edge of his seat, a tight line where his lips would be.

"Okay, that’s it. You need to stop."

"I’ll be—"

"Just stop the fucking car!"

At the next bend there’s a dirt landing by the side of the road, where you pull over and turn off the ignition. You unbuckle your seat belt. Breathe in, breathe out, fumbling to take out the keys. The jangling noise makes you wince.

He’s removed his sunglasses. It’s like a flaming torch being shoved right in your face.

"I’m sorry. I just lost focus for a moment, that’s all."

"That’s all? We were inches, mere fucking inches away from ramming into another car! What on earth were you thinking?!" He’s balling, clenching his fists. He peers out the windshield, his voice cracking. Perhaps even breaking. "Do I even want to know?"

"I was thinking about fucking you, actually. Heaven forbid I get distracted by that."

The words escape your mouth, quietly seething. He barks out a laugh, shaking his head at you, incredulous. He’s also blushing—not that he would ever admit it.

"I love how you’ve worked out a way to guilt trip and blame me for this. Even when I haven’t fucking done anything. It’s brilliant."

"That’s not what I—"

"So, is anything actually your fault?" He continues forth, cutting off your response with a tight folding of his arms. Bitterly steeling himself. "Can you actually bear being fucking wrong for once? Admit that you’d made a mistake and stuffed up, just this one time?"

Your hand has shot out in his direction. Waving him down. To stop. Please stop.

"This is bullshit…"

He laughs. It makes your insides curdle. “Yeah, it is.”

You blink. Realise that just like that, he’s nailed you.

"I’m not actually trying to blame anyone. But you know what? If you think I’m so unfit to drive, here," you shove your fist into his chest, "you can fucking do it."

You consciously avoid looking at his face as you drop the keys into his lap and rush to open the door. But you don’t get far before your wrist is clamped. He jerks you back. So close you can practically taste the spirited tang of pinot noir on his breath. Anger radiates, swells around you. You can’t move.

Still, you refuse to confront him, glancing the cloudless sky out the window. A golden strip of sand in the distance, beyond the fenced off cliff edge, deep blue sea shimmering in the afternoon sun. Swirling tides foaming at the shore.

All you can do is recoil. He catches you by the jaw. Gnaws at you. It’s messy. You’re slapping at his chest. Head thrashing about. For only a few seconds you come up for air. Muster up a thought.

"What the f—"

You finally see him. That simple shift in the light of his irises.

"Shut up."

His lips are dry, plying your mouth from all the wrong angles. Too rough, too painful. Too much. Yet you’re sinking fast into the push and pull. Pinned to him as he is to you. Sucking hard on his tongue. His teeth are scraping at yours for more purchase. Greater control.

You’re tasting friction. His Adam’s apple bobbing under your thumb, fingers curled around his throat. You hadn’t realised they were there. Feeling his tendons throb. The fine thread of saliva that stretches from his lips, breaking from yours.

His head tilts slightly, admiring you. In that petulant, condescending way he does, when he knows you can’t help yourself.

"That’s my girl," he purrs, stroking your cheek. With a little snarl. Like he owns you. "You know you want it."

 _Arsehole._ Part of you itches to slap him. Yet the words taunt you there, between your legs. Accompanied by the pop of a button released by nimble fingers. Your unzipped fly, fabric rustling at your lap.

Your grip on him falters.

He grabs you by the hips, dragging you across the gearshift column into his lap. Your mouth shapes a ‘no’. Only it short circuits at the sight of him swooping in, latching onto your neck. This is your weak spot. The point where you stop questioning your need, and you’re clawing at his scalp, his side, wherever your hands end up. It makes him smile into your skin. Suck that much harder while shoving off your jeans.

Except now you’re smiling back, catching his forehead as soon as you have the chance. Thumbs hook into your underwear at the hips, sliding down the fabric. He licks his lips. Certain that he’s beaten you. Forgetting all too easily how this had started. With filthy, not-so-sweet nothings. Thoughts turned to words you’re demanding against that small, soft mouth. Drawing his fingers up the nape of your neck, into your hair. He yanks your mouth open, deepening the kiss. You’re straddling him tight between your thighs as he strips you of your t shirt. Quick to undo his jeans in return.

He dips his head to kiss your clavicle. Fixes you in his sights. It’s electric. You spasm when he hovers down to your chest, mouthing at the mounds. His teeth graze roughly over your flesh, and you’re moaning for him to slip the cups off, bare your breasts. The butt of your palm grinds at the fabric of his boxers. God, he’s SO hard.

He takes a more studied approach, his tongue slow to swirl around, flickering teasingly at the nub. Throbbing. Pulsing all over your skin. It’s wonderful. You writhe around his mouth. Cling to him. Fistfuls of black cotton. Carded fingers through ashy hair.

It startles a small groan out of him, how eagerly your hand slides underneath his waistband to free his cock. Rounding its shaft, raging at your fingertips. Heat builds, your pussy growing slick and wet. His bottom lip nudges your nipple as you squeeze the head. Give him a few hearty tugs.

"You’d love to drive into me. Right up to your balls inside my tight, soaking wet cunt. Isn’t that so, Mr. Freeman?"

Something darkly sparks at your formal use of his name, shining brilliantly in his blown pupils while his gaze rakes over you. Dazed blue, hypnotic with lust. He grins so keenly it scares you. And bites.

You cry, the burst of pain flaring through your chest. Snatch his jaw, snapping it up level with yours. Not before you spot a circle of teeth marks surrounding your areola. Blood is beading. Smeared over his mouth. Staining his teeth.

He shouldn’t look sexy like this, but he does. The mean, petulant edge to his smirk. Indulgent in the way he deliberately takes his time to lick the blood off. Daring you to bite him back.

He’s stunned at the quick snap of his seat lever, lowering him almost flat. He rises with a start. Your nails score at his prickly growth, taking him by his jaw before he gets too close. Over his chin, your palm shapes the side of his face. That formerly snide mouth fallen open. You tenderly trace his lower lip, trembling as you stroke his glans, thumb at his slit, nice and slippery and gleaming with pre cum. 

It’s awfully tempting to jerk him off like this. Make his eyes flutter, rolling back into their sockets as he murmurs, bucks into your palm. Totally losing himself. Just by your simple actions. Playing at the firm weight of his balls. Lathering in the shift and slide of his foreskin.

He swipes away your hand, and of course you’re way ahead of the game. Pushing him too far. He can’t. Boring his fingers into the flesh of your waist, your arse. Has you cursing at the car roof instead as you’re made to swallow that shaft of his right up.

Underneath you he shifts forward. Pulling out of you. Empty. So fucking hollow. You’re keening for him. His tip barely rests in your folds. You lean over and grab him by the shoulders. Ram him against the backrest. His face blooms.

And with a snap of his hips, starts pounding into you. Your knees hitch to his sides. Tight around him, his pattern of bumps and ridges. He growls. It’s like nothing else you’ve ever heard. How lowly he sounds, carving you out. Curves inside you differently each time. Sensing out your spot. 

"Fuck…my God," you cry when he hits it. And again. "That’s it…right there. YESSSSS."

He’s panting, skin flushed and dewy. A droplet that sits fairly and squarely at the point of his nose. You offer it the tip of your tongue. He’s watching you the whole way, following the trail up to the centre of his forehead. Plucks at a kiss before you can even shut your mouth and swallow.

He tongue fucks your pert little hole as he would your dear, darling cunt. Your mouth yields, grows slack around his. That’s when he really makes you hurt. Thrusting so savagely he practically tears at your already worn insides. Your orgasm screams blind. Clenches hard for him. He cums fast, the crush of his body lifting yours upright. Fierce red lines you feel clawed down your spine as he spills deep into you. His shoulder blades haven’t fared much better.

Creeping underneath his shirt, you nurse the marks while catching your breath. He hugs you close. You gently peck him on the cheek. Let the sensation of his skin linger. Inwardly he’s buzzing. And yet you’re held by the sheer weight of him. Numb. Unable to speak.

"Are you alright?"

He places a fingertip to your mouth. You get the message. Well, you think you do. His attention is elsewhere.

Directed towards the roar of a car approaching. Red Mercedes convertible. Its horn blares. Beeping again and again. You spot the driver staring as he nears. Pokes his head out the side. With the most stupid-arse smile on his face. And yells out.

"YOU LUCKY, FUCKING WANKER!!"

He chuckles, idly circling the serpent tattooed at the small of your back from head to tail. “And a good-day to you too, kind Sir.”

You start giggling. Stop when he peers at you, prickling at your reaction.

"This doesn’t change anything, you know." The back of his hand brushes your cheek. "About what I said."

"Does it have to?"

Closing in on you again, he takes your face. Sometimes you can’t read his expression. The way he quietly turns things over in his head. There’s the glint of a grin. His lips parting, just a little. Ready to kiss you.

Maybe he does get it. This thing, whatever it is.

In his other hand, he rattles the keys. Finds your hand. Wraps them in your grasp.

"Well, go on. You’re the one driving."

Back in the driver’s seat, dressed and ready to leave, you turn to him while you start the ignition. He has his sunglasses back on. Admiring the view. Sky meeting sea far into the horizon.

Maybe, just maybe, he gets it better than you do.


End file.
